Clancy, knowing this, scarce expects reply; or, if so, with little hope of explanation.
He does not wait for it, having himself discovered why the wild horses are going at such a rate. Besides the dust stirred up by their hooves, is another cloud rising in the sky beyond. The black belt just looming along the horizon proclaims the approach of a “norther.” The scared horses are heading southward, in the hope to escape it.
They come in full career towards the spot where the two have pulled up—along a line parallel to the trend of the cliff, at some distance from its edge. Neighing, snorting, with tossed manes, and streaming tails, they tear past, and are soon wide away on the other side.
Clancy keeping horse and hound in check, waits till they are out of sight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from which he so unceremoniously jerked him.
Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the hound easily retakes it, straining on as before.
But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon the tracks of the mustangs, these having spoiled the scent—killed it.
Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle; Jupiter sharing his dissatisfaction.
What are they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing the ground trodden by the mustangs, and trying on the other side.
To this Clancy consents. It is the only course that seems rational.
Again moving forward, they pass over the beaten turf; and, letting Brasfort alone, look to him. The hound strikes ahead, quartering.